your touch lingers on my skin,
i tell myself it's not yours:
that it is one of the many fantasies.
but it's reality,
as you yourself have showed me it can be so,
and fuck, do i love it.
at the sound of your voice,
the hair on my arms rises.
the simplest of words feel as a command i must follow religiously;
so i prepare myself to kneel before you,
and pray to you.
let me be your servant,
i'll do anything,
as long as i can feel your touch on mine again.
YOU ARE READING
𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁 𝗠𝗲 𝗔 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝗺
Poetrya collection of letters, poems, and short stories from deep within, a little addiction with it too; welcome to the emotions of the awkward teenage time we all once had.
